Of Things Almost Despaired Of
by thegraytigress
Summary: His face hurt. The throbbing was persistent. Bloody determined. But then, so was he. Tag to "Finding Judas".


**DISCLAIMER:** _House, M.D._ is the property of David Shore and NBC Universal Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for language, adult themes)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is a quick little tag that goes all the way back to season 3's "Finding Judas", which I have always thought to be one of the best episodes of _House_. No slash. Please read and enjoy!

**OF THINGS ALMOST DESPAIRED OF**

His face hurt. His jaw was throbbing, sending stinging bolts of agony from the very roots of his teeth to the very tips of hair. His head was pulsing, a fierce, fiery ache settling behind his eyes. The area where he'd been struck was tender to the touch, the flesh heated and swollen. He probed it gently in the bathroom after sucking some water from the faucet into his mouth and painfully swishing it around before spitting the reddish liquid to the sink. He'd cut the inside of his cheek somehow, and he could still taste the bitterness of blood. It seemed fitting somehow.

He didn't want to be here, but he couldn't go home. Not yet. He still had a few hours to put in at the ICU, hours that he wished would simply disappear as though they had never existed at all. He had to go back to the diagnostics office. He'd left his lab coat there and some files he needed. He didn't want to, but he was almost angry enough not to care. They would be there. They would poke and prod and accuse. The two of them, so high and mighty and sound in their assumptions. He'd had it with them. One day they would act so friendly, joking with him, teasing him, caring about him, and the next he was no more than an opponent to them. Someone who threatened them. Someone who was without morals. An ass-kisser. A lazy, uncaring jerk. They didn't know him at all. Part of that was his fault because he never made the effort. But part of it was their fault as well because they had made their damn assumptions about him and never, _ever_ questioned them.

Tonight he didn't think he could stand it. _Just go in_, his mind chanted as he rushed down the wide halls of the hospital with his head bowed to hide the growing bruise. _Get your stuff and go._ Maybe they wouldn't even be there. He doubted that, given the disaster his life had become of late, he would be so lucky. They would be shocked and they would ask what happened. Cameron would mother him to make herself feel better and Foreman would berate him. He didn't give a damn anymore about what they thought. He just couldn't.

He burst into the diagnostics office, leaving the door to swing wildly behind him. They were there, not that he looked to them, and they watched as he stalked to the rack and grabbed his coat. "What happened?" Cameron predictably demanded. Her mouth was agape, her eyes searching and immediately concerned. He didn't look at her. He didn't think he could stand her fake sympathy washing over him like a warm, wet, suffocating shroud.

They were both on their feet, rushing towards him. The hurt side of his face was in plain view, and he couldn't hide. He reached across the glass table, rapidly rifling through the open folders and books and papers to locate the files he'd left. He couldn't find them. There was too much damn stuff on the table. "Oh, God… Did he hit you?"

He didn't answer, pushing a pile of papers nearly to the edge in his angry hunt. He could ignore them. He could. But they were insistent, because they had to know _everything_ that happened in their twisted little world. They had to know because they could then use the facts to flesh out their skewed perception of reality. That was the way they diagnosed the problems they saw. They came to a conclusion first and then molded what they knew to fit that conclusion.

Foreman was there, making to grab his arm. Chase gritted his teeth despite the pain it caused. "Jesus. What the hell happened?"

They were waiting for him to answer. He abandoned his search for a moment, turning to face them. Cameron's mouth was still hanging open. And Foreman's face was tense and expectant. "What do you think?" he seethed, turning back to the spread of papers. "I had two files here. What happened to them?"

Cameron shook her head, clearly aghast. "Why?" she finally managed.

He slammed shut a few open books and pushed them aside, resuming his search. "Because he's an arrogant prick. Does it even matter?"

"He's an arrogant prick to everybody all the time, but he's never hit anyone before. What did you do?" Foreman asked, more intrigued than he was concerned. "You went running out of here like a bat out of hell."

He set icy eyes on his colleague. "To save that little girl's life. She doesn't have necrotizing fasciitis. She's allergic to light."

The two of them were silent a moment, perhaps dumbstruck how he had come to that conclusion. They were always shocked when he managed to show he was a good doctor. And they were always worried when he proved that he _deserved_ the job he had, that maybe he was as good a doctor as they were, if not better. Normally he let it slide off of him, but today he didn't have the emotional fortitude to not care. "He almost cut off her arm and leg, and another dose of surgical light could have very well killed her. I had to stop him. He wasn't right."

Cameron eventually thought to say something. After all, all of this couldn't possibly be right. He'd thought of it. "That's… incredibly rare," she declared, obviously stupefied.

"It's what she has," Chase retorted. "Where are my goddamn files?"

No one answered him, and he shoved a pile of papers onto one of the chairs. There. Two blue edges peaked out from beneath an open journal. Pushing the book aside, he snatched them up and turned to leave.

But he couldn't. Foreman stood in his path, his obstinate jaw set in such a way as to indicate that he was not letting Chase go without explaining himself. "So he hit you because you were right?" he said incredulously. "House is an ass, but he's not petty."

Chase tipped his head slightly, steeling his expression into a tight glare. "You said it yourself; he's detoxing. Now get out of my way."

Of course they wouldn't just let him go. This was too interesting, too grand an opportunity to abuse and degrade and intimidate him. He wondered when it was that they had become so vindictive. He'd screwed up with Vogler and he knew it and damn well regretted it. But did that mean he was automatically guilty of ratting House out to Tritter? Was he not allowed to make a mistake? Whenever Cameron and Foreman closed ranks, he wasn't included. Who the hell were they to sit in judgment?

"That can't be all of it," Foreman decided, folding his arms across his chest and settling an analytical gaze on his colleague.

Anger made Chase's stomach clench and roil. "Are you saying I can't be right?"

"I'm saying that it's not that simple," he returned arrogantly. Chase wanted to wipe that self-serving smirk off his face. "You talked to Tritter, didn't you? I knew it." He sighed, already sure of that conclusion. "You kissed his ass to save your job. _Again_. Every time the pressure gets higher, you do everything you can to protect _yourself_. House found out, and he retaliated."

Chase's face had remained unflinching and unmoving throughout that explanation, but inside something inside him was throbbing. It was hot and twisted and pulling tighter and tighter, like a thread yanked on either side. It was aching as ferociously as his jaw. And suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. "I didn't betray House," he said slowly and evenly, stepping closing to Foreman.

"You only know how to do whatever you need to make your own life sweeter. It's like we said: you did whatever your dad wanted you to, and he made sure you got what you wanted. Now you suck up to House to get what you want, and whenever it becomes obvious that House can't do it for you anymore, you head straight to the next person higher up."

"Foreman," Cameron cut in quietly, looking slightly desperate to diffuse the situation. Her concern was entirely self-serving, and they both knew it. "Chase, come on. We don't need to be at each other's throats. We have to stick together."

"Why?" Chase snapped coldly, insulted by that fake consideration he saw in her eyes. "Sticking together has never included me."

"You did that yourself the _last _time you ratted out House," Foreman returned, narrowing his eyes. "Why shouldn't we suspect you? Of the three of us, you're the one with the predisposition."

The room was silent for a long moment. Foreman had pushed the buttons, and now they were waiting to see the reaction, the instigator with an expectant look on his face and Cameron's expression a bit twisted in worry but no less steeped in interest. Chase moved his eyes between them. "What's the point of defending myself?" he finally asked. "You won't believe me because you've already decided I'm guilty."

His two colleagues shared a look, thought whether to question their behavior or ascertain the validity of his declaration of innocence he didn't know. Apparently it was the latter. "So you didn't talk to Tritter then. At least, not about House," Cameron slowly surmised, returning her eyes to Chase. She almost seemed fearful of his response.

Chase sighed. "No." How could she still care so much about their misanthropic boss when it was more than obvious he didn't give a damn about her? He didn't know, and he was starting not to care. Not anymore. Not when his face stung as wickedly as it did and his heart felt this heavy.

"Will you?"

He couldn't believe it. His eyes widened. "Just like that?" he snarled. "A minute ago I already did it and now you're begging me not to?" He supposed it made some grotesque sort of sense. If he hadn't spilled to Tritter about House's addiction, he had every reason to now. He'd been punched. _Assaulted_. The collision of House's knuckles to his jaw had shaken him to his very core. He'd been hurt, mortified, and belittled, and all because he'd actually gotten one right. He'd forced House to face the fact that he'd been wrong, and he'd paid for it. He had no reason _not_ to speak with Tritter. He was easily the most abused of House's team. He was the most teased and tested, about his hair, his accent, his father, his personality… And normally he just ignored it, letting it all go because it wasn't worth getting upset about and he'd certainly had worse. But this was the farthest House had ever gone to both hurt and humiliate him. What cause did he have to be loyal?

He glared at her, pouring every ounce of his hurt into it. She crumpled under the icy weight of it, her hopeful, wistful expression disappearing in a show of shame. Chase sighed, swallowing the venom he tasted in his mouth, and shook his head. "Damned if I do and damned if I don't, I guess."

"Chase, we didn't mean –"

He didn't want to hear it. "Yes, you did." Their faces fell, Cameron's mouth hanging open limply and speechlessly, Foreman's eyes shameful as he looked away. Chase shook his head in disgust. He couldn't stand to be with them any longer. "I have to go."

Cameron was hurt, but he found he didn't feel bad. Not in the least. "Where?" she asked.

He didn't answer, pushing his way past Foreman and heading quickly to the door. He tried to look away, but he couldn't help but see Foreman's eyes grow even more embarrassed. He swallowed any regret; everything about them was shallow and presumptuous, and if he faltered now he'd only prove himself to be as weak and people-pleasing as they asserted. As he feared. He wouldn't let himself be manipulated. His face hurt. He concentrated on that and fed his anger. "Chase, if he hit you, maybe it has gone too far. Maybe he has it coming. Maybe you should stand up to him."

He snapped. "Shut up. You don't know a damn thing about it, so just shut up."

He was gone then, leaving them surprised and bothered. The door swung violently on its hinges once more before settling into an uncertain and unnerving stasis.

* * *

His face hurt. He'd downed a few ibuprofen with a cup of lukewarm tea, but it really hadn't helped. The throbbing was persistent. Bloody determined. But then, so was he.

He'd gone to the ICU. His body was moving on auto-pilot because he was tired and beginning to feel every bruise he'd sustained when he'd fallen from the force of the punch. His feet carried him from patient to patient of their own accord as he did his rounds. His hands did their work without much in terms of thought or conscious direction. Taking pulses. Administering medications. Checking wounds and vitals. Most of his patients were too sick to notice him, much less speak with him, and for that he was glad. It meant he didn't have to interact with them, and thus nothing interrupted his daze. The nursing staff regarded him with worried eyes, and he heard them whispering behind his back the minute he turned away. Not one asked if he was alright. They probably had heard what had happened already; he and House had certainly had plenty of witnesses to their little altercation, and a hospital was about the worst place for gossip (or the best, depending on whether one was the topic of the rumors or the hungry consumer of them). He ignored them.

The redness on his face had begun to give way to a deep, nasty bruise, and he felt his jaw starting to swell. He felt he should have someone examine it; he'd taken a serious knock, and he knew already the edema was not minor. Had he seen a patient with such a blow to the head, he would have insisted on an x-ray at the very least and monitor the person for any signs of disorientation or concussion. But he didn't think he could stand someone else poking and prodding him, and he knew an examination would likely yield nothing serious. Besides, he didn't want to explain to anyone how he had come to acquire the bruise. Getting punched out by his own boss was embarrassing enough.

He'd spent nearly an hour dealing with the many patients in the ICU, moving from bed to bed. Thankfully things seemed to be rather routine. He was one of the only true intensivists on staff at Princeton-Plainsboro, and thus he was constantly on call to tend to the seriously ill people that came into the department. He didn't mind so much; it was an excuse to get away. Some of the other doctors, the rest of the diagnostics department included, didn't care for the ICU. It was too solemn, too quiet, and too cold. It was a place dominated by stressful silence that was only punctuated by awful moments of sheer panic and terror. That was intimidating, but Chase found the rhythm of life and death and moments trapped in between to be calming in a strange sort of way. It was a high onto itself to rush into a desperate situation, lose himself in the moment and summon from himself some great measure of equanimity, and save the patient. In those moments, he felt strong and in control. He was grateful to have the intelligence and the power to do what he did. It hurt to lose them when he did; despite what Foreman and Cameron thought, he _did_ care, more than he probably should sometimes. He just hid it better because he couldn't _afford_ to be affected by every patient he saw.

But he cared about the girl, Alice, and not just because he'd been right about what she had. When he finished, he went to her room in the peds ICU. He found the lights dimmed as they should have been, given her condition. The tiny body was limp in the bed, sleeping. An oxygen cannula snaked under nose. Her tangled brown hair was splayed upon the white pillow. Her damaged arm and leg were exposed, glistening from some antibacterial lotion one of the nurses had lightly spread on the broken skin. The marks the surgeon had made to guide the amputations had already been washed away, like they had never existed at all. He wished it was so easy to forget.

He stepped inside the darkened room. She didn't move as he laid a gentle palm on her forehead. Her vitals were stronger. She seemed to be resting peacefully. That was comforting, at least. In a few days she would return home to a new life, one that was perhaps more complicated but hopefully filled with a steadier sense of love from her parents, and the experience would dim over time until her mind convinced her it was only a nightmare. In a way, he envied her that. Her life would be difficult now, with special regimens, painful isolations from other kids, and constant worries. The simplest exposure to the outside world could damage her terribly. But it gave her an excuse to hide, as well. Life was cruel as often as it was gracious, sometimes even more often. And this wasn't to say that he'd run from things given the chance. His life hadn't been easy, contrary to what Foreman and Cameron thought, but he didn't lament it. At least, he tried not to. Regardless, he wondered at this little girl. When things got hard, she'd always have an excuse to run away. When there was pain, there would always be somebody to hold her and protect her. Everything would be dulled and distant, extremes muted and brightness dimmed. He contemplated if in some strange, roundabout way, that would make things easier.

He stopped thinking about it, clearing his mind. He didn't like to take himself, or his past, too seriously. That was the way he was. As he stood there gazing upon the child, he let himself feel a bit of joy, relief, and pride that _he_ had saved her life. And he was grateful that the epiphany had come to him when it had. The pain in his jaw, then, seemed worth it. The hurt and humiliation seemed inconsequential. He'd done the right thing.

There was the sound of the door opening. It was Alice's parents, the Hartmans (well, the man was Mr. Hartman, and she was divorced and Chase couldn't remember what she had wanted to be called). They seemed a little surprised to see him. "Is anything wrong?" the woman asked. She appeared to be genuinely concerned, and the spite and annoyance Chase had seen in her eyes previously was thankfully gone.

He managed a bit of a weak smile, quickly dropping his hand from their daughter. "No," he answered. "I was just checking on her."

The woman nodded, and Mr. Hartman came to stand beside her. He had a cup of coffee and some papers in his hand. She bore a large teddy bear with a great pink bow around its neck. A gift for Alice, Chase reckoned. She deserved it. "Dr. Cuddy told us what was wrong with her," the woman continued, looking forlornly at her slumbering child.

Chase nodded, folding his arms over his chest. He hadn't talked to the Dean of Medicine himself, but he was certain somebody (either Cameron or Foreman or maybe even House himself) had. After all, the surgery had been abruptly ended just as it had been about to begin, and that warranted an explanation. Cuddy had seemed unusually involved in this case, though Chase couldn't say why. She seemed to care more than she normally did. He supposed even deans could be overly emotionally invested in patients now and then. "She'll be okay," he assured, casting aside his thoughts in favor of some equanimity. He didn't know if they were looking to him for assurance, but he'd offer it all the same. "The condition is manageable."

"She said that, too," Mr. Hartman explained. "It's just a little hard to believe that we did this to her."

It wasn't a rational thought, but then little these two parents had done seemed to be logical. Chase was more than familiar with the antics of poor parents. Still, he tried to comfort them. "There's no way you could have known," he promised, shaking his head slightly. "It's incredibly rare to carry the gene for erythropoietic protoporphyria and even more rare that the two of you would have a child together. These things… sometimes they just happen."

"Is that supposed to make us feel better?" the woman asked, shaking her head slightly as she gazed absently upon her daughter. Her tone was without accusation or venom, but Chase still found it bothersome. "How is it that you couldn't figure this out?"

The question shocked him, and for a moment he couldn't think of anything to say. Then he stammered, "Excuse me?"

Again, there was no anger or emotion in her voice. There was only weary and defeated curiosity. "Why did it take so long to figure this out? When Dr. Cuddy told us what it was, I was just surprised that Dr. House wasn't the one –"

The anger came again, wresting free from the restraints of exhaustion and complacency. He believed he schooled his face enough to hide its emergence. Suddenly he had to get away, to escape to any place other than in that tiny room with them. "Like I said," he heard himself say, his accent slurring his words considerably, "it's incredibly rare. Excuse me please."

Then he was away, stalking down the nearly vacant halls of the peds ICU. He wasn't thinking. He was feeling. Fury. Betrayal. Frustration. Had it been any other day, perhaps he wouldn't have been so bothered by someone else taking credit for his work. At least he would have felt petty and disgusted with himself for being so angry. But he didn't. There was only the fury, and it pulsed through him with every fall of his shoes to the floor, with every breath in and out of his lungs, with every aching beat against his sternum. With every moment his jaw spent throbbing. Suddenly, it didn't pain him nearly as much as his heart did.

* * *

His face hurt. Damn it, it _really_ did. It hurt to talk. It hurt to move his mouth, to grind his teeth (which he found himself doing more and more these days). It hurt to think, but he couldn't stop himself. His mind swirled in an unending, tangled knot of things he didn't want to address. It twisted around, churning as a storm, and every so often a bolt of emotion would stab the planes of his spirit like lightning. He longed for indifference, but he just couldn't muster it.

It was late. He was hungry. He'd gone to the ATM earlier after he'd cooled down a bit and completed the last of his rounds to get some money. He'd intended to grab a quick meal from the hospital cafeteria before it closed for the night, but that plan had been thwarted. Apparently Tritter had come to the conclusion that his little plot of locking everyone else's account save Chase's wasn't going to force him to betray House. So he'd released theirs but frozen his, probably in retribution for not rolling on his boss. Or for added pressure, given the obsessed cop had likely found out by now that he'd gotten slugged. That was what he got for his troubles apparently. A bloody bruised jaw and the same damn fate as everyone else, only with more humiliation and hurt because he'd been right and he'd been loyal. There was a reason why he hadn't been either in the past, although the former was certainly not due to a lack of trying. If you didn't look out for yourself, you just got crapped on in the end anyway, and you felt worse for it because you should have known better. It had taken all his willpower not to ram his fist into the nearest wall as he had walked away empty-handed from the ATM, and only the decidedly unpleasant thought of adding a broken hand to his list of injuries for that day had restrained him.

He had to eat. His stomach was twisted and tied into a painful knot, and he knew at least part of that discomfort was due to not eating since a small, quick, unfulfilling sandwich he'd had around noon. He hadn't had time to do his grocery shopping, so he knew his apartment was completely devoid of food. So he was going to the doctor's lounge, praying there would be _something_ left over that he could swipe before leaving for the day. And he prayed that the area would be empty. He'd managed to avoid any substantive human contact for the last couple of hours, and he really didn't want to ruin that streak of solitude.

But there would be no such luck. He barged through the door, spotting Wilson on the other side of the small table holding a few containers of food. He hardly looked up at him, subconsciously ducking his face to hide the hideous, growing bruise. There, on the table, was a nearly depleted loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of grape jelly. If that was the best he could manage, then it would have to do.

He stomped to the table quickly, dropping his attaché case perhaps a little too roughly considering his laptop was in it. He felt Wilson's eyes on him. The man was probably noticing his bad mood immediately, but he was really too tired and upset to try and hide it. He grabbed the peanut butter and quickly unscrewed the cap. There was hardly any left. And why the hell should there be? His luck was miserable, and he clenched his teeth despite the pain as he grabbed a knife and scraped the bottom of the barrel.

Eventually the silence grew too uncomfortable for Wilson. The man was attracted to hurting people; he needed to be needed, as a friend, as a husband, as a doctor. That was probably why he put up with House's abuse, because he thought eventually his compassion would be appreciated. Chase knew his body language was more than enough to spurn Wilson's mother hen instincts into gear. "So," the oncologist began with an exaggerated tone as though to hide that he really cared, "what's new?"

Chase stopped spreading the peanut butter on the bread, pausing to answer. He really couldn't run away now. And maybe he shouldn't. Of all the doctors at the hospital with whom he had common contact, Wilson was the most compassionate. Perhaps it would be worth talking about it. "House missed one." He said this as though it explained everything. Maybe it did. The world really was off kilter if House, the great thinker, the amazing diagnostician, had failed to solve a puzzle. And maybe in a universe so skewed and twisted, a blow to the face didn't amount to what it normally did. It didn't mean House's insults and dismissals and doubts were serious, even though today they damned well seemed to be. Wilson would tell him that.

But Wilson didn't seem to think it quite so enormous and monumental event, although what Chase saw in his eyes and what the oncologist said did not quite agree. "That's happened before."

He wasn't satisfied with that. "He nearly maimed a little girl," he clarified. "I got it right." He looked away, sinking into the memory. He heard his own voice, rapidly explaining what Alice truly had to House, who couldn't possibly give less of a damn. He felt House push him out of the way as he tried to sidestep him and flee the hospital. He remembered his own insistence, wanting to convince his boss that he had figured it out, that the surgery had to be stopped, that he was neither a traitor nor expendable. And then he remembered the force striking his face, the shock rushing over him, the hard floor rushing upward to meet his body, the breath violently exiting his lungs. The pain and the taste of blood. House's eyes wide with disbelief. Apparently they'd both been astonished.

He came back to himself. "And I told him and it didn't matter." He jabbed the knife into the newly opened jar of jelly and set to smothering his sandwich in it.

They were silent for a brief moment before Wilson took it upon himself to try and help. "Chase, you solved one." His voice was laden with a bit of understanding and a bit of reproach, as though Chase should have known better than to let any of this bother him. "You helped a patient. That better be enough for you." Part of him wanted to throw the damn sandwich in Wilson's face, but he didn't. He never did want he wanted. "Beckett was going to call his play 'Waiting for House's Approval' but decided it was too grim."

That was enough to rid him of any want to continue this conversation. He finally looked up and met Wilson's gaze. "Trust me. I'm not waiting anymore." And when he reached for his bag, he knew Wilson had caught sight of the bruise. But he didn't care to pretend anymore. Even Wilson didn't want to make him feel better. No, Wilson wanted to remind him that working for House was worth the suffering. That House's sanity (or lack thereof) was worth more than his own, than anyone else's. He didn't know why he had even bothered to expect anything else. Wilson was House's friend, not his.

He left the other man speechless, grabbing his things and taking a bite of his sandwich as he exited the lounge. It hurt to chew, but he did it anyway. He always did what he needed to, even when it hurt.

* * *

The next day his face was worse. His jaw was so stiff he could barely move it, and the swelling was unbearable. When he woke up miserable and exhausted, he'd staggered to his bathroom mirror to survey the damage. The bruise was huge and deeply purple and terribly tender. He usually slept on his left side or his stomach, and though he had tried to drift into slumber the night before while lying on his back, he'd surely and unconsciously exacerbated the problem. He considered calling in sick, but as he painfully downed four Advil and showered, he decided against it. What was there to do at his place but think? At least at work, if he was lucky, he could hide all day among the dying. Nobody would even notice he was missing.

Pressing his cold bottle of apple juice to his jaw, he leaned tiredly into his locker. It was early yet, too early maybe for Cameron and Foreman. He considered staying there in the locker room all day, but he doubted nobody would find him. Thus he chugged the rest of his juice, swallowing each mouthful painfully, before slipping on his lab coat and heading to the clinic for his shift.

A score of runny noses, nondescript joint and abdominal pains, and rashes he'd rather have never seen later, he wandered up to the ICU. He did his rounds there, ignoring the multitude of looks and whispers surrounding the now livid bruise. They were worse today. By now the entire hospital had certainly heard the tale. Yet no one asked if he was alright. The nurses seemed afraid to approach him, even though they were usually friendly with him. Although he wouldn't admit it, it hurt that nobody felt concerned enough to find out if he was okay. Only his patients (the ones well enough to speak, at least) bothered to ask. A few inquisitive kids in the clinic had wondered if he'd gotten into a fight. He'd managed a smile for them and quipped that they should have seen the other guy. They'd found that amusing, even if he didn't.

He'd feared the sound of his pager all day. Though it had gone off a few times, not once had his boss or any of his colleagues summoned him. He assumed the diagnostics team didn't have a new case. Or they did and they were not including him in the differential. He wanted to think he didn't give a damn which.

The day proceeded slowly. He took refuge in the hospital's intensive care units, spreading his time equally between them, handling the few crises as they emerged but generally just updating charts and monitoring vitals and treatments. House was not generally well liked by the other staff in the hospital, and by extension neither were his fellows. The other doctors were interested just to be polite; only Dr. Grayson, one of the surgeons, recommended he go home and take care of himself. He faked some gratitude and promised to take the advice. Instead he found himself an ice pack and hid in an empty exam room in the clinic for a bit. His throbbing jaw was becoming a throbbing migraine.

Sometime in the afternoon Dr. Cuddy had found him in the NICU. She'd pulled him aside, directing him to a vacant patient room before expressing her apologies to him for what happened. Her eyes had been glued to the bruise of his face, a mixture of disgust, shame, and worry twisting her face. Quietly she had informed him that he had the right to press charges against House, or at the very least make a formal complaint, but he could tell from the tone of her voice that she didn't want him to do either. He remained silent as she spoke, not caring to hear anything she said, not finding her compassion genuine. Finally she stopped talking, her eyes betraying that she was growing uncomfortable. She as well bade him to go home and rest, touching his arm briefly. Her fingers were freezing. She left without asking if he was okay.

He guessed they assumed he was. Or they didn't care. Both seemed equally likely; after all, he never really responded to friendly overtures of affection and concern. He brushed these things aside, because inevitably they led to prying and him venturing information he normally had no intention of sharing. He couldn't now expect them to suddenly care when he'd so often hidden or lied or brushed aside their interest in the past. However, as illogical as it was, he still wanted them to, and it pained him that they didn't. Cameron and Foreman had branded him a traitor and a poor doctor. Cuddy had deemed him a potential problem. Wilson considered him as an acquaintance of a friend and thereby nothing at all. And House… He wasn't worth the time.

The day came and went. Chase wandered through it in a daze. There was no reason to stay. None at all. Even if there was nothing for him at home.

His jaw was aching terribly, and he was dead tired. It was late again; his shift had long since ended. He was outside on the balcony between House's office and Wilson's. He'd chanced coming here now, after he'd made sure Cameron and Foreman had left. He leaned on the brick wall. It was snowing pretty steadily, and he was shivering. He only wore his lab coat over his dress shirt. His breath was a ghostly wisp of air before his lips, the vapor lasting but a second before disappearing. He watched it intently. Dramatically he wondered how similar that little cloud was to his own life. Fleeting and inconsequential. Transparent and without substance. He disgusted himself with those bitter thoughts, with all the damn bitter thoughts before them, but as he braced himself on the railing and rhythmically slid the envelope he was holding through his forefinger and thumb, he couldn't stop himself from wondering why the hell he never seemed to deserve anything more than a measly, empty, _transient_ puff of what he needed.

The icy air felt good against his jaw. The hospital had seemed stifling. Snow softly and peacefully fell before him, coating his hair, tickling his nose, sticking to his eyelashes. Winter was still something of a novelty to him. He observed the tiny flakes tumble to earth in a haphazard pattern. There was some strange sense of serenity in such simple chaos. Nothing was measured or regulated. Falling to the left or to the right did not make or break a diagnosis. Landing here or there did not change a man. There was no right or wrong answer. He liked that.

The sliding door behind him rumbled open. Somehow he knew who it was without turning to look. He waited, narrowing his eyes as he stared into the snowy night, until the distinctive thudding of a shuffling gait and a cane striking the ground grew louder. Eventually his visitor came to stand beside him.

They stood in complete silence for a long time. The night was quiet as well. It was tense. However, House was never one for awkward moments. Chase knew he could be tactful when he chose to be, but those times were rare and far in between. "Does it hurt?" House finally asked, never once glancing at his fellow.

Chase swished his tongue over his back teeth and experimentally shifted his jaw, as if to confirm that it still pained him before answering. "What do you think?"

House didn't immediately continue, sniffing slightly and leaning more of his body weight into the sturdy brick wall. His cane was resting between them. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, my hand hurts like a son of a bitch."

"Not really." Although he did glance furtively down in his boss' direction to see the aforementioned hand. Sure enough, the knuckles were pretty red and swollen. And that _did_ make him feel better, in some small, evil way.

"What's that?" House asked, tipping his head slightly towards the sealed envelope Chase still held.

He'd almost forgotten about it. He hadn't wanted to tell House at all, but he would have at least preferred to wait until the deed was done. Cuddy would have argued with him surely, but he could stand up to her. And with her acceptance of it behind him, with the entire matter finalized, he would have had the fortitude to contend with House. Now there was no escaping the inevitable. He focused on his anger and his hurt to give him strength, because now there was no avoiding this. Three years of working with House had taught him that when the man found something that interested him, he would pursue it doggedly until it no longer did.

"My letter of resignation," he finally answered, sliding the smooth edge of the envelope through his fingers once more. He'd typed it not long ago on his still open laptop at the conference table in House's office. He'd been alone in the dark, bathed in the glow of his computer, unthinking and unfeeling as he wrote a short, succinct note requesting that he be released from his fellowship immediately. He wasn't asking for anything in terms of severance. He wanted it to be quick and easy. He was done deluding himself. The prospects of ever getting what he wanted were too grim. He'd just been too naïve and stupid to see that as quickly as the others had.

Now it was silent, and the silence was deafening. Chase forced himself to remain still, unwilling to waver before his soon-to-be ex-boss. For his own part, House was also unmoving. Chase feared his wrath in some sense, because despite everything that had happened, a part of him still didn't want House to be disappointed in him. Finally House sighed. "So that's it then. You're just going to tuck your tail between your legs and run." Chase stiffened even though he had been expecting the acidic comments. "Where are you running to? Back to Australia? There's nothing for you there. Another hospital?" He felt more than saw House shake his head. "You came to the States to work with _me_." Maybe he imagined it, but he thought he heard a touch of hurt in the other man's voice.

"I can get another job anywhere," Chase argued. "Another hospital will be glad to have me."

"But you don't want _another_ job _anywhere_," House insisted. "You want to work with me."

Chase shook his head. Did House have absolutely no humility? He wondered why he even bothered to be surprised every time the other man sank to a new moral low. "Not anymore," he declared evenly.

"That's a load of crap, and we both know it," House snarled. "All the hell you went through to keep this job. Ratting me out to Vogler and to Tritter."

Anger rushed through him, and he settled blazing eyes on his companion. "I didn't rat you out to Tritter!"

Quiet. Then a soft, nearly ashamed, admittance. "I know."

Something inside him softened, and the hot rush of hurt abated ever so slightly. Confusion shook him, and he lost his tight hold on his ire. "Then why…"

"Because I was detoxing," House grumbled quietly. Again, a touch of hurt crept into his low tone. And regret. "Because it hurt that you were right and I wasn't. Because I didn't even want to consider it." Chase didn't know what to say to that confession, so he kept silent. "The point is: I've given you much worse than this before. What, because I attached an actual punch to all my psychological blows it's sending you crying?"

The fury returned. He clenched his teeth, sending a bolt of pain up and down the side of his face. "You're a right bastard, do you know that?" he snapped.

"Yep," House quickly and simply answered, even though the question was rhetorical. "But you're not. And you are _not_ a quitter." That hurt, too, but in a different way. A softer way. A deeper way. "And, thus, you are not leaving. So tear that damn thing up and I'll forget that this ever happened."

His dismissal of everything made Chase feel even more inconsequential. "It's not that easy, House," he said, looking away from his boss and staring morosely out into the snow. He'd stopped shivering, too angry to feel the cold even.

House sighed, though it was not in defeat. It was in realization that his fellow was right yet again. It was _not_ this easy. House could be a cantankerous ass and a cruel jerk all he wanted. The insults hurt sometimes, but they were easy enough to ignore because that was simply who he was. That was how he dealt with people, with problems, with life. And even the punch, for all the damage it had caused and could continue to cause, would fade with time. It was acceptable, even. But that wasn't the root of his anguish, and they both knew it. "Do you know why I hired you?" House finally asked.

The question took Chase aback. He swallowed, leaning back a bit, and finally took a good look at House. The man seemed his normal self, unshaven and dressed sloppily, his face locked in an unreadable expression. Yet he had spent enough time with the diagnostician to realize he was different somehow. He was burdened by something more than the pain of his leg. Regret, maybe. Or withdrawal. Perhaps they were one and the same. Chase shook his head.

House narrowed his gaze. "Before you even came to interview, your father called." Alarm rushed over Chase, and his eyes widened. He had never known that. But before he could even think to speak, House was continuing in his tale. "He asked me _not_ to hire you." And the surprise he felt before paled in comparison to the surprise he felt now. And the rage. "He told me you weren't ready to work with me, that you couldn't handle the pressure. Needless to say, I didn't take his advice."

"And why not?" he asked hotly. He really didn't feel like playing House's damn games right then. It hurt too much, and his mind was reeling with his father's latest insult from beyond the grave.

House shrugged with a little grunt, pursing his lips. "Don't know. I liked you. And I was curious why your father would sabotage your chances to get something you wanted. And why you wanted something your father obviously didn't want for you."

The pain made his voice crack. Damn House for bringing this up! "So you hired me to push my buttons?"

House dipped his head slightly. "That's about it," he surmised. Tears suddenly burned Chase's eyes, and he looked away. He felt betrayed on a very fundamental level, like when House hadn't told him his father was dying. Like when his mother had turned her back on him and drowned herself at the bottom of a bottle. Like when his father had walked out the front door of their house and never returned.

"Please don't go. I can't stop you if you really want to, and we both know that, but please don't." House's plaintive plea sounded so unreal, so unlike him, that for a moment Chase wondered if he had heard it all. Through the haze of emotion, everything seemed distant and distorted. But it was true. "I need you here. With me."

"Why?" he demanded furiously. "Because Foreman and Cameron don't take your crap like I do?"

House shook his head slowly. "Because I got lucky. Turned out there was more to you than your nice hair and your daddy issues. You think the right way. You do the right things. You stand up for what you believe in because you think it's right, not because you believe in it and therefore it must be right. I need _you_ here because I need _you_ to catch me when I screw up. I need you to make the right call. You have it, what it takes to do this job and do it right. They don't." The diagnostician sighed. Before Chase could even open his mouth, House's compliment disappeared under the rug of his usual snarky sarcasm and cruelty. "But don't tell them I told you any of this, just in case I need to use this speech on one of them later."

At that, Chase smiled. He couldn't help it, even though he didn't feel happy. Not really, anyway. House grabbed his cane, leaning back and sighing. "You should get that checked out," he said, as he turned to look at Chase. The Aussie glanced over his shoulder, and they met each other's eyes. There was a moment of silent understanding, at least, that was what Chase desired it to be. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that any of this was genuine. House's compliment. House's concern. House's approval. House's shame. In his own way, House was apologizing, and not just for hitting him. For letting him down. For betraying him and everything they stood for.

Chase understood that. "I'm fine," he said softly, a hint of a smile upon his lips.

House nodded, turned, and went back inside. "Merry Christmas, Dr. Chase," he said before closing the door behind him.

Chase stared behind him a bit, watching the shadow of House's form move through the diagnostics office to the hall beyond. When he could no longer see the other man, he returned to looking out into the snow, into the night and dark world beyond. Then he remembered the envelope in his hand, and he gazed down on it. His mouth twisted into a rueful smile, and he shook his head. Maybe House thought he was giving him a gift, the thing he'd always wanted. One damn, pathetic moment of approval. His life was a summation of desperate hopes and lost causes and a slavish admiration of their useless saint. And perhaps this was all too little and too late.

But maybe not. "Merry Christmas, Dr. House," he said to the night. He could be giving, too.

* * *

The next morning they gathered dutifully in the diagnostics office like nothing had ever happened. House's other fellows looked shocked that he was there. Shocked at the bruise on his jaw. But they didn't speak about it. He could tell they were brooding, and not about him. He would find out later that during his self-imposed exile the day before Wilson had gone to Tritter. He hadn't expected that, but when he thought about it, it made sense. He pondered how much of a role he had had in Wilson's decision.

House limped in some time later. "Santa needs us," he declared. And then he tossed the case file to Chase, who sat at the end of the table. He caught it, and the two doctors again shared a look. He thought House seemed a little surprised, as well. And a little relieved. "Did you get that looked at?"

He offered a small smile. "I'm fine." And he was. He was still there, and his face still hurt, but not as badly as it had. He supposed that was enough.

**THE END**


End file.
